The Painter's Wife
by tayelerr
Summary: Things didn't quite happen the way Hermione had planned. And when her past comes back to haunt her, she's forced to look back at the choices she's made. Rated M for violence, language, and smut.
1. Chapter 1

Warm grease crackled in the frier. The curly headed brunette dumped a batch of fries into the bubbling liquid, wincing as it splashed at her arm in protest. She strode over to sink and placed her tingling arm under the faucet. Adjusting the temperature to hot with her free hand, the burning sensation finally subsided, and she withdrew her arm from the water, drying it off with a rather filthy dish rag. She plopped down on an overturned crate and buried her face in her hands.

She could've been a world renowned scholar. She could've been a ridiculously successful doctor or alchemist. She could've taken up art or business. And yet here she was, wasting away in the kitchen of a two-star restaurant. Hermione Granger had hit rock bottom.

"Granger! Get back to work!" a male scolded her, jabbing his finger into her face, "I'm not paying you to have a pity party." Hermione nodded and produced a rather halfhearted smile. The man grunted and wobbled away; he must've weighed a good three-hundred pounds at the very least.

Grumbling to herself, she pulled the fries from the grease and plopped them down onto a plate. She drizzled cheddar cheese upon them, topping them off with bits of bacon and onions. If she didn't know any better, she'd say they looked very appetizing. But after having been the one to prepare them for well over half a decade, she'd learned rather quickly never to willingly eat here.

Hermione placed the plate on a tray and departed from the kitchen, pushing open the swinging door that separated the dining room from the preparation centers. It was fairly empty tonight; an older couple sat in front of one of the windows, picking their forks at loaves of meatloaf and bread, and a lone man scribbled on newspapers he'd strewn across the table nearest the entrance. The fries must have been his, his area deprived of any food. She strode over to him, her fake smile still painted across her lips. "Here you go, sir," she chimed, attempting to sound as sincere as possible as she sat the tray on the table.

The raven-haired male looked up at her, his grin as wide as could be. Hermione had to take a few steps back in order to take it all in, her heartbeat echoing through her ears. "H-Harry?" she whispered, clutching at her chest. It couldn't be; after the war, they'd all went their separate ways. They hadn't spoken or sent letters to each other in nearly six years. But here he was, seated directly in front of her, babbling on about this and that. She was in a different world at this point, and his words had gone in one ear and quickly out the other.

It took her a few moments to regain her senses, and as she snapped back into reality, Harry stood up to hug her. His arms felt strange wrapped around her, almost like they were trying to fit two pieces of a puzzle together than obviously were meant to be at opposite ends of the table. Hermione left her arms limp at her side.

"Harry, you can't be here," she finally pushed herself from his grasp. He stared at her in disbelief, obviously dumfounded by what she was saying, "You can't-"

Hermione shook her head, unable to finish her sentence as she stood there, staring into the eyes of a man who she once called her friend. She raised her hand as she attempted to say something, but unable to find the correct words or even her voice, she turned around and exited through the swinging door. Her boss stood at the frier, reloading it with more frozen fries. She paid him very little attention, though, as she yanked off her apron and grabbed her coat off a hook near the back door. "Sir, I have to leave," she said, pulling her jacket on.

"I don't think so, Granger!" he bellowed, pointing his spatula at her. Hermione simply ignored the man and exited the restaurant, the sharp winter air greeting her. Shoving her hands into her pockets, she trekked home. She didn't look back at the restaurant, at the boy – no, the man – she was leaving behind. She didn't stop or reconsider her decision. She simply walked. She roamed the streets of London until she couldn't walk anymore, and yet she still continued walking, even as her soles begged for mercy.

Hermione Granger had hit rock bottom. And she refused to let anyone, not even her childhood best friend, ever know it.


	2. Chapter 2

The warm bath water felt soothing against her skin. Her chill bumps had begun to fade, and her sore feet felt no more discomfort. Her thoughts raced as she lay there, the small black and white bathroom illuminated only by five or so candles. She had ran, made herself look more pathetic and washed out than she really was. The look in Harry's eyes when Hermione bolted away was forever ingrained in her mind. She sighed, allowing herself to completely submerge in the tub.

The water filled her ears, and as she opened her eyes, she watched the ripples of water dance upon the flickering ceiling. Hermione held her breath for as long as she could. When her lungs finally felt as though they would burst, and when her eyes burned with irritation, she resurfaced. Her breath came out in small gasps as she reached for the washcloth behind her head. She pressed it firmly against her eyelids in hopes that they would forgive her for leaving them open in such bubbly, soapy water. But the moment she applied pressure on her face, her feelings began to pour out, and her tears filled the washcloth.

It had been several years since the war ended: five, to be exact. She had spent five years trying to pick up the pieces of the life she had shattered. Her parents were unable to remember who she was, and she couldn't forgive herself what she had done, couldn't bring herself to accept that it was her spell that had wiped their memory clean. She had fought in the war that had determined the wizarding world's future, defeated the one man who could have ever posed a threat to it. She had won numerous awards during her stay at school, and she had even managed to fall madly in love with her dear best friend. She had it all, once upon a time. But alas, here she was, sobbing in a bubble bath.

As soon as the tears stopped flowing and her breath normalized, she emerged from the tub, her naked body leaving droplets of water on the tiled floor. Hermione stared at herself in the full-length mirror that hung on the closed door before her, her fingers tracing her stomach and shoulders and breasts and hands. Her eyes scanned every pore, every scar, every imperfection. She turned her head as soon as her sight had reached her face. Even after all these years, she still found it difficult to look herself in the eyes, to see what she had become.

With a towel wrapped firmly around her damp body, she left the bathroom and headed towards the living room. Her apartment wasn't as grand as she had hoped it would've been. In fact, it was quite dumpy and far from homely. But she had done her best to decorate it tastefully, to keep it from looking like the shit hole it truly was. Hermione sank onto the couch. She pulled a cigarette from the half-empty pack on the table and lit it, sucking in its toxins as if it were a breath of fresh air. The moment the nicotine hit her, her problems seemed to slowly fade away, and all that mattered was how long she could made it between ashes. As she inhaled, she looked around the room. She smiled as she noticed the lovely vase of lilies that sat on the bookshelf next to the front door; they had been a gift from her neighbor, Twilla. She nearly giggled as she saw the birthday card she had received last year from her coworkers: a rather tasteful nude man was on the cover, and she couldn't help but blush.

But as soon as her gaze met the framed picture of the jubilant red-headed male, she had to take a moment. He seemed ever so joyous in the photo, shoving the raven-haired male playfully as rays of sunshine glowed behind them. It truly was a beautiful photo, one she was happy to have kept. But as she looked at it, it reminded her of what she had done, reminded her of where she was now.

She put out the cigarette in the ashtray nearest her arm and laid down. The candles still flickered in the bathroom, teaming up with the dimly lit lamp that sat in the corner across from her to give off just the right amount of light. Her eyelids felt heavy as she laid there reminiscing. She felt no sign of tears, though, only the sweet embrace of her exhaustion. She managed to keep her eyes open for a few more, allowing them to dart here and there in hopes that she'd be able to remain awake. But her efforts were simply not enough, and as she blinked her eyes one last time, visions of the ecstatic red-head tugged her into a much needed slumber.

(Bear with me; I'm still trying to decide what direction I'm taking this in. However, I do know that the next chapter will be fairly sexual. Thanks to those of you who are reading. I promise this won't be awful.)


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